


The Third Rule

by misura



Category: Nightside Series - Simon R. Green
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-13 01:38:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/818451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It was raining, the day the mysterious new client came in, and perhaps that should have been John's first clue, but it had been a slow week, not to say a slow month. Besides, it was Spring.</i> (pre-series)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Third Rule

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaishiro15](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaishiro15/gifts).



> prompt: _John/OMC, Implied/Unrequited/Light/Dark. Outside in London Proper, it's much harder to live in than the Nightside. John just wants to protect the people who can't protect themselves._

The difference between the Nightside and the rest of the world is this:

when it's three o'clock at night, outside of the Nightside, it's only going to take a minute to pass.

 

It was raining, the day the mysterious new client came in, and perhaps that should have been John's first clue, but it had been a slow week, not to say a slow month. Besides, it was Spring. 

There was something about the man's face - or his voice, or the way he carried himself, or all of that, perhaps. That should have been a clue, too. Still, it had been a long time, and John figured that it might have been a bit _too_ long.

He didn't get involved with clients, of course - it was the second rule of being a successful private investigator, and he hadn't really gone out of his way to meet anyone who wasn't a client recently. Say, the past three years.

And then the man explained what he had come for, in a soft, secretive voice, glancing around John's office every now and then, as if he expected someone to jump out at him at any moment.

Most people would have backed out, then. Nothing good had ever come of looking for the Maltese Falcon - nothing good, but a lot of bad things had happened to those foolish enough to ignore the first rule of every good (and still living) private investigator.

John Taylor was not most people. He wasn't afraid, and he wasn't superstitious, and he was more than capable of defending himself against anything anyone might use to try and stop him.

(Besides, rent was due again soon, and he really needed the money.)

 

The first check didn't bounce, and neither did the second, or the third.

The client didn't change his mind, and neither did John, exactly. He told himself it was because once the job was completed, his client wouldn't be his client anymore. They might have become friends, by then. They might even have become more than friends, even if that wouldn't be at all professional.

John wasn't sure if he cared very much about being professional.

The rain seemed to be letting up a bit, on some days. People were saying they might be getting a long, hot Summer. John stuck a pair of sunglasses into one of the pockets of his trenchcoat, just in case.

He'd been getting out quite a bit more, recently, although not usually alone.

John supposed he might be feeling happy, just a bit. Just enough to remember the last time he'd felt like this, and the place where he'd been, then. They weren't bad memories, but some of the ones that came with them were. They gave him a good excuse to explain the uneasiness he felt, every now and then, the feeling that crept up on him sometimes, about how it was all going to end in tears.

 

Of course, it did just that.

Maybe it was because of the second rule, and maybe because of the first. Maybe it was because Someone, somewhere had decided John Taylor was not allowed to find happiness quite so easily.

 _'I don't believe in guns,'_ John had told his client, as he had told many people before, and in the Nightside, that would have been enough. (Even if he'd ended up running for his life with a bullet in his back. That had been personal.)

 _'I don't believe in guns,'_ John had said, but he wasn't in the Nightside now, and the Gift that would normally allow him to make it so, to take the bullets straight out of any gun to render it harmless didn't work as strongly in the world outside.

There was a sound, a bang, and someone cried out, and then there was blood, so very much blood, on John's hands and John's trenchcoat, and it didn't hurt, it didn't hurt at all.

After all, he wasn't the one who'd been shot.

 

"There was nothing you could have done, John," Walker said, warily eyeing the cup of tea that was standing on the desk in front of him. John had offered it to him mostly for the sake of being polite, but also because he knew Walker was the kind of person who would actually _mind_ if his tea came in a cup that looked like it had seen better days. A long time ago.

Of course, the same could be said for the rest of the office - including John himself.

"You said you had a job," said John. "A paying job, even. That's the only reason I let you in."

"Four years," said Walker. "You've been gone for four years. Was it worth it?"

"To stay alive? What kind of question is that?"

"Life," said Walker, and he looked around the office, as if searching for something. "Ah. Is that what this is to you? I do apologize; I hadn't quite realized."

"You should understand," said John. "You, of all people, should understand. Henry."

Walker smiled without humor. "Did you know - the only people who use that name anymore all live here. Still, don't get too used to it. And don't talk about things you can't even begin to comprehend, John. I live here, because I like it. Because at the end of the day, I'm normal."

"And I'm not."

"No," Walker said simply. Bluntly. "No, you're not. That's why the Nightside exists, John - so that people like you have a place to go to. A place where the only ones you can put at risk are other freaks."

"I was going to offer you a biscuit, but now, I think you should just leave."

"Yes," said Walker, and he got to his feet unhurriedly, collecting his umbrella and his bowler hat. He looked every inch the city gent, the well-to-do businessman. In a crowd, nobody would notice him. "I don't think you'd have been up to it, anyway. The man you were once might have been, but you're not that man anymore, and I have no use for you as you are."

"Please," John said. "Do let the door hit you on your way out."

"I don't think I will. I might end up damaging it, and I doubt you could afford the costs of having it repaired. Goodbye, John. Do try to take care of yourself. I do worry for you so."

John opened his mouth to tell Walker what he could do with his worries, but Walker had already left, his cup of tea still standing on the desk, untouched.

Outside, it had started raining again.


End file.
